by Beth Wiseman
“Is he now?” Naomi’s father raised an eyebrow. “I noticed you’ve all been spending a lot of time together. Mammi says you even went to a carnival. And I think I heard about a trip to Walmart . . .” Her father’s eyes met Brock’s as he pressed his lips firmly together.
“Ya, Brock was nice enough to take me to the store one day, and the girls were thrilled about going to the carnival.”
Her father stroked his beard. “Well, I can report back to your mudder that all is well then.” He kissed Abby and Esther Rose each on the cheek. “And maybe still get home before it’s completely dark.”
Naomi was glad her parents lived close so her father didn’t have far to go. Her heart rate picked up as she recalled the night Stephen was late coming home, but as always, her emotions tugged and pulled at each other. She remembered her father standing on her porch crying as he told her about Stephen. But she could also remember the last words Stephen had said to her that morning before he left for a construction job. I hope this house is clean when I get home. She could still feel the tightness in her chest when she’d told him, It will be.
After her father left, she sent the girls upstairs to get ready for bed, promising to tuck them in shortly.
“Can Mr. Brock tuck us in?” Esther Rose asked from halfway down the staircase about fifteen minutes later.
Naomi stood up from where she was sitting in the rocking chair, and after Brock tossed another log onto the fire, he looked over his shoulder. “I don’t mind tucking them in, if it’s okay with you.”
“Um, okay.” Naomi wasn’t sure how she felt about this. “We say prayers aloud together at bedtime.”
Brock nodded and was already moving toward the stairs, and Abby and Esther Rose each took one of his hands.
Naomi poured herself and Brock each a cup of coffee and was sitting on the couch when he returned.
“They are sweet girls,” he said as he sat down beside Naomi. “And thank you for the coffee. I’ll drink it quick since I know I’ve already kept you all up too late.”
Naomi set her coffee cup on the table after taking a sip. “I don’t go to bed this early, so you’re not keeping me up.” She looked at the clock on the mantel and wondered why she had just told a lie. It was nine o’clock, and she was almost always in bed by eight. Oops. Sorry, God.
“Okay, well, I’m appreciative of the good meal and the fine company this evening.” He blew on the steaming cup, then took a sip. “I guess I’m not ready for it to end, but the girls have school tomorrow, and now that the rain has stopped, I’ll be out in the morning to see how much hay I was able to keep dry. I promise not to stay long.”
“Do you want some pie?” Naomi sat taller. “I have apple and coconut.” Maybe if she kept feeding him and filling up his coffee cup, he wouldn’t leave. She was safe with him, in all the ways that counted.
“Apple would be great.”
She returned with two slices, but Naomi only got about halfway through with hers when she set the plate on the table and touched her stomach. Her baby was unusually active this evening.
“The baby is moving?” Brock set his plate down beside her and twisted to face her. His eyes stayed on her hand, rubbing her tummy.
“Ya, he—or she—has been busy all evening.” She took her hand away and looked at Brock, but his eyes were still on her stomach.
“That must be amazing to feel a life like that, I mean—moving and alive.”
As instinctively as breathing, she took his hand and placed it on her stomach. It was an uncommon practice among their people, and with her other pregnancies, she’d only allowed Stephen to touch her stomach. She placed her hand on top of Brock’s.
They sat quietly for a while, the baby kicking and pushing against her new friend’s hand.
“Thank you,” he whispered in the dimly lit room as his eyes met hers. “It is amazing.”
Naomi reached into her pocket to rub a hand over the purple packet, and her heart skipped a beat. She jumped to her feet and picked up the lantern, went to the kitchen, back across the living room, into her bedroom, then back again.
Brock stood up. “Can I help you find something?”
Naomi stopped in the middle of the living room and stomped one foot. “I cannot believe this is happening again!”
“What?”
She sat down on the couch and put her face in her hands. Brock sat down beside her, and she finally looked at him, fighting tears. Visions of burying her child—Adam—spilled into her mind. It was illogical to think a packet of spices controlled God’s will, since it surely didn’t, but before she knew it, she was babbling on and crying. When she was done, she waited for Brock’s reaction.
His face was red as a freshly painted barn, his hands clenched at his sides from beside her on the couch. Naomi had never seen him like this.
It scared her.
Anger scared her.
Chapter Eight
Brock forced himself to remain calm by taking some deep breaths. He reached for Naomi’s hand and held it tightly as her bottom lip trembled.
“Sweetheart, listen to me.” Brock wasn’t sure if he’d just crossed a line by using the endearment, but he was so mad at the moment, and she was so upset . . . “That purple packet of herbs doesn’t hold any power at all. None.” He huffed. “Nothing is going to happen on the night of the harvest moon except that the moon will be bigger and brighter. That’s it.”
“I know in my mind that you’re right.” Naomi eased her hand from his, then pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “But I couldn’t bear it if I lost another baby. I just couldn’t.” She shook her head so hard that her prayer covering slid to one side.
“Just remember, that packet holds no power. Only God holds the power, and everything that happens is His will.” He’d heard that his entire life and could remember his Amish grandparents drilling that into his head even though his parents had chosen to leave the Old Order district and to raise him Englisch.
“I know.” She sniffled and seemed to be catching her breath.
Brock didn’t think it could be good for the baby for her to get this upset. “God’s in control,” he repeated. He’d been praying for Naomi and her children. And as he listened to himself, he couldn’t help but wonder why he continually questioned God’s will for his own life.
Brock was still concerned about what Abby had told him, about the hitting. But now wasn’t the time to bring it up. He waited awhile longer, until Naomi had completely stopped crying, then he stood up. “I should go. But only if you promise me that you’ll forget everything that old woman said.”
Naomi followed him to the front door. She nodded, then without warning, she put her arms around his waist and laid her head against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, and when she looked up at him, he kissed her on the forehead. “Everything is going to be fine, and you’ll deliver a healthy baby in a few months. And all that stuff about the moon is just stupid superstitions.”
Brock believed everything he was telling Naomi to be the truth. She and her baby would be fine. But he was starting to wonder if he would be okay. When did he start to care so much about Naomi and her children? He might struggle with God’s plan for his life, but he’d learned to live with it. Was God tempting him, goading Brock, to fall for a woman he couldn’t have? He eased her away, and quickly left.
Friday morning, Brock’s emotions were all over the place, but there was something he needed to take care of before he went to Naomi’s. Glancing at the ominous clouds overhead, he wondered if the weather forecast was correct. It wasn’t supposed to rain the next few days, so he planned to take advantage and work over the weekend. But gray clouds rolled in as he walked to Pearl King’s door. She hadn’t been hard to find.
Brock had a faint memory of her. He’d seen her briefly at Naomi’s but hadn’t been able to place her. Now he remembered her from his childhood.
On the porch were two black cats curled up inside a small red suitcase. They both
meowed when he knocked on the door.
“Are you Pearl King?” he asked when an elderly woman answered the door, even though he knew she was.
“Yes, I am. How can I help you?” The old woman smiled, but Brock’s anger from the night before struck him anew.
“You’re taking advantage of a friend of mine, and I’m here to make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Brock stuffed his hands in his pockets when Pearl’s eyes widened, knowing his size often intimidated people.
“Who are you?” Pearl’s eyes dropped into a squint. “And who are you talking about?”
“I’m Brock Mulligan, and I’m a friend of Naomi Dienner.”
Pearl put a finger to her chin as her eyebrows drew into a frown, deepening the lines slithering across her forehead. “You’re Andrew and Katie’s boy.”
Brock started to tell her that his mother had passed a few years after his father, but he didn’t want to say more than he needed to. “Yeah, I am. And I remember you from when I was a kid, mostly when I was visiting my grandparents.”
Brock’s grandparents lived on the next block, and his grandmother would repeatedly warn him and his brother not to go near Pearl’s house. Some of the elders still sought out respected powwowers, but Brock’s grandparents believed that Pearl practiced a form of powwowing that resembled witchcraft. And it certainly sounded like she’d taken advantage of Naomi. “I know you were shunned by the Amish, and I also know that you’re a powwower.”
“My shunning had nothing to do with being a powwower. I needed electricity because I have health issues that require the use of an oxygen tank at times.” Pearl raised her chin. “Now, what is your business here today?”
“Stop feeding Naomi’s head with your nonsense. You’ve got her scared to death with all your talk about the phases of the moon and the harvest moon that will be here soon. It’s all a bunch of baloney. She lost some packets of herbs you gave her, and it brought her to tears.”
“Good grief. She lost a second packet?” Pearl frowned. “I’m not giving her another one.”
“You mean selling her another one. You’ve already conned her out of a hundred and sixty dollars.” Brock considered Naomi’s misplacement of both packets divine intervention, so she wouldn’t be taken in by such nonsense.
“I didn’t con her out of anything,” Pearl spat back at him. “Those packets have been prayed over, and—”
Brock pulled his hands from his pockets, and just the movement itself was enough to cause her to stop talking and step back from the other side of the screen door.
“Prayers are free. What you’re doing is wrong, and I’m just here to tell you to leave Naomi alone. I’m sure it’s no coincidence that you just happened to get confused and stumble upon Naomi’s place.” Brock suspected Pearl had done her research and knew all about Naomi losing a baby. “This is called targeting a vulnerable person and preying on their fears as a way for you to make a profit. Please, just stay away from her.”
Brock turned his back to her, and as he walked to his truck, he could hear her rambling on in Pennsylvania Deitsch, but Brock ignored her. He was anxious to get to work. And to make sure that Naomi was okay. Ten minutes later, he was on her porch.
“You missed breakfast,” she said as she pulled the door open.
“Yeah, I know. Sorry about that.” Brock fought the awkward feeling, shifting his weight from one side to the other and avoiding her eyes. Things had probably gotten a little too intimate the night before. Maybe sharing every meal with Naomi and the girls wasn’t such a good idea. “I brought my lunch today.”
“Why?” She put a hand across her stomach.
“I-I just felt like chicken salad, and I . . . had some at home.”
“Too bad. I’m slow cooking another roast with potatoes and carrots, since you said you liked it so much before.” She shrugged, grinning. “But I’m sure your chicken salad is better.”
Brock had grabbed an energy bar on the way to Pearl’s house, and that wasn’t enough to sustain him through midmorning. His stomach was already growling, and his mouth watered at the thought of eating roast. Naomi didn’t look like she felt awkward at all. In fact, her bright eyes shone in a way that almost resembled flirting. “Okay, then. I’ll see you at dinnertime.” He tipped the rim of the baseball cap, then smiled and left.
Naomi knew good and well that she was venturing into a dangerous place with Brock. She never dreamed that a man could be such a gentle giant, so kind and protective. But she should have known that her father wouldn’t be good friends with Brock unless he trusted him completely. And trust and safety were particularly appealing to Naomi, even though she’d vowed not to become involved with anyone. But when she recalled the intimacy of him feeling her baby move, the hug, the kiss on the forehead . . . she felt warm all over, the way she did when she’d first met Stephen.
She took a deep breath and opened the oven to check the roast, then went back to kneading her bread, her thoughts drifting to various places, but with each passing moment, she talked herself out of the possibility of anything romantic with Brock. He wasn’t Amish, he was considerably older than her, and Naomi was fat, pregnant, and had two sassy, but wonderful, little girls.
I will pray that Brock finds someone suited to him, an Englisch woman who will love him and give him a family. What a wonderful father he would be.
Brock devoured the roast, potatoes, and carrots on his plate and reached for his third slice of buttered bread. So much for chicken salad.
They’d been quiet for most of the meal. When Brock was done, he swiped at his mouth with his napkin, and when Naomi got up to clear the table, he said, “Hey, I need to talk to you about something.” He wanted to take advantage of the girls being out of the house so they wouldn’t overhear.
Her face turned pale as her expression fell. “If it’s about last night . . . um, we don’t need to talk about it. I was upset and you comforted me.” She smiled. “And that’s what friends do. I’m overly emotional when I’m pregnant. I apologize for getting so upset.”
Brock cleared his throat, feeling silly for thinking she may have romantic feelings for him. Of course, she doesn’t. “No, I need to talk to you about Abby.”
“About what?” She eased her plate forward, put her elbows on the table, and rested her chin on her hands.
“When we were at the carnival . . .” He hadn’t realized until now how hard it would be to tell her this. It was most likely going to upset and embarrass her. “Was Stephen abusive to you?”
Naomi dropped her hands and laid her palms flat on the table as she sat taller. She blinked her eyes a few times. “What? Why would you ask such a thing?”
Brock was certain by her reaction that it was true. “I just think maybe you should talk to the girls about it, Abby at least. She told me that she knows Stephen hit you, but that you didn’t know she knew.”
Naomi stood up, paced her kitchen, then turned to face him, slamming her hands to her hips. “Well, it’s not true.”
“I think it may be, Naomi.” Brock stayed seated even though she started pacing again. “And I think maybe you need to talk to Abby.”
“I said it isn’t true.”
Naomi wouldn’t look at him now, and she started to clear the table. Brock latched onto her wrist when she got close enough to him, and she jumped, pulled away, and backed into the kitchen counter, her eyes fearful and watery.
Brock held up both his hands. “Naomi, I would never lay a hand on you in anger. Never. Real men don’t hit.” He slowly stood up and walked toward her, close enough to cup her cheek. “Men shouldn’t hit.”
She eased around him and went back to cleaning the table.
“Did he—did he hurt the girls ever?” Brock was sure Naomi would say no, since she wouldn’t even confirm that he’d abused her.
She set the two plates back on the table and hung her head. “Never.”
“How do you know?” Brock moved closer to her.
“Because I would have known. He
was a gut father. I was the problem.” She looked up at him as a tear trailed down her cheek. “I was a bad wife.”
Brock sighed, his heart heavy. “Naomi, it was not you. There is nothing a person can do that warrants getting hit.” He felt relieved that Naomi believed that Stephen hadn’t harmed the girls.
“I didn’t always do my chores in a satisfactory way,” she said as her lip trembled. “And sometimes I didn’t finish the laundry. Sometimes supper was late. And once I broke a serving platter that his grandmother had given us as a wedding present.” She stepped back from him, her hands clenched at her sides. “And once I spit in his food when he wasn’t looking . . . because . . .” Tears trailed down both cheeks as her face grew redder. “Because he was mean! Because he hit me! Because I couldn’t do anything right.” She covered her face with her hands.
Brock covered the short space between them quickly, pulling her into his arms, realizing that she probably thought of him as more of a father figure, a protector. But it didn’t matter. His need to protect her was strong, even if it would have to be as her friend. He kissed her on the forehead again, something that felt as natural as breathing. “You’re okay now. And it’s okay to feel this way. I think it’s normal to be angry.”
“But he’s dead,” she said in a tiny voice.
Brock stepped back and slid his hands to her arms. “Yes, he is. But that’s God’s will, and it’s not your fault. You’re a good person, Naomi. You deserve to be happy. I’ve had a hard time accepting God’s plans for me. For a long time, I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that He took Patty from me, that her life ended, and in a way, mine did, too, for a while. I have trouble just blindly putting my faith in God these days. So, I continue to rebuild my relationship with the Lord, struggling to get back to where I once was. But Naomi, I’ve been praying for you to find a good man to take care of you, Abby, and Esther Rose. And through doing that, praying for you, I feel closer to Him.”